


Getting Here

by olivejuice28



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Angst and Fluff, Coworkers - Freeform, Emotionally constipated Draco, Enemies to Friends, F/M, Friends to Lovers, Happy Ending, Pining, Post-Hogwarts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-27
Updated: 2020-04-27
Packaged: 2021-03-02 01:15:08
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,888
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23876782
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/olivejuice28/pseuds/olivejuice28
Summary: After years of pushing everyone away, Draco finds himself drawn to an unlikely source. Perhaps letting someone in isn't as awful as he'd thought after all.
Relationships: Hermione Granger/Draco Malfoy
Comments: 20
Kudos: 130





	Getting Here

He sat on the end of the massive, four-poster bed and let out a sigh of exhausted, yet contented relief. It had been a very long, rather emotional, whirlwind of a day, and while he had truly enjoyed every second of it, he was still glad to be on the other side of it now. He scrubbed his face with his hand which he then let fall into his lap, solely covered by a pair of dark green, silk shorts. A low chuckle escaped as he watched the glow from a nearby candle reflect off the shiny material; one of several little gifts from Hermione over the course of the past week leading up to their big day. He still wasn’t entirely sure how he’d gotten here; still wasn’t convinced he hadn’t swapped places with another, luckier bloke; still wasn’t sure he deserved this.

A great many things had happened and changed in the six years that had passed since the war, particularly in the life and mind of Draco Malfoy. While he had avoided a lengthy sentence in Azkaban, he did not emerge unscathed in the aftermath. After years of living in sheer terror of the madman who had taken over his home, his family, and his entire way of life, he was extremely wary of trusting others and had an obsessive, compulsive need to control every aspect of his existence moving forward. In the wake of the grueling trials, which he was made to take part in more than a few of, he had perfected the art of hiding any and all emotion behind a frigid and unaffected façade, interacting with as few people as possible and never letting anyone close enough to get below his hardened surface.

He’d disappeared for just over a year once his assistance was no longer needed to put the remaining Death Eaters and Voldemort sympathizers behind bars, using that time to study and figure out what he wanted to do hence forward. Upon re-emerging into wizarding society, he immediately applied for and received a position in the Wizengamot’s legal defense department. Within a few short months, he had earned a reputation as the most ruthless attorney the Ministry had ever seen, and consistently won case after case. His knowledge and advice was routinely sought after, even by his much more seasoned coworkers, and in no time at all he had rebuilt the Malfoy name into something respected, admired, and powerful. However, even with a favorable spotlight shone on him, even with weekly articles in the _Prophet_ about his success in the court room, even with the outward support of many well-known and well-liked people, he remained elusive and distant.

At the start of his second year at the Ministry, he was brought in on a lengthy case that required him to work directly with the one and only Harry Potter. Though the former rivals had crossed paths numerous times over recent years, their interactions never included more than brief greetings or short, informational conversations, and only when absolutely necessary. This time, however, the pair of wizards found themselves working side-by-side for the better part of a year, spending multiple days a week digging through files, putting together an airtight case, and (much to the pale blonde’s discomfort) becoming a bit more than coworkers. The Chosen One was rarely bothered by Draco’s cold demeanor and scathing comments, and infused his own brand of laid-back amicability into their meetings. The long hours in the office spilled over into grabbing drinks at the pub after a particularly draining day, and regular fire-calls when new information was discovered. Against his better judgement and much to his dismay, it seemed Harry was becoming more of a friend than he’d had in years.

The presence of the emerald-eyed hero in his life did not, by any stretch of the imagination, mean that Draco was now friendly or warm, or that he willingly engaged in conversation with anyone else, or that he even smiled, for Godric’s sake. It simply meant that he was less prone to venomous snark in the presence of the Boy Who Lived than he was with others, and that he tolerated Harry’s existence much more than any other human he encountered. Eventually, though, even that changed. Once a verdict had been presented at the end of the longest and most tedious case he’d ever worked on (and won, of course), Draco had assumed he’d simply go back to his self-imposed isolation. Harry, on the other hand, had very different plans for his new and reluctant friend.

It started with a weekly check-in that came in the form of grabbing a quick lunch, or catching up over pints on a Friday night, but the first time he found himself participating in a pickup Quidditch match with a dozen of the Golden Boy’s friends, he knew he’d let his boundaries slide to a terrifying degree. He’d enjoyed the game, more than he was wont to admit, but he’d politely refused the invitation to join everyone for dinner after. Harry had talked him into three more matches in the months that followed, and after the third one he was basically bribed into joining the gang for drinks at the Leaky later on. His former nemesis had promised to steer a particularly annoying liaison from his department away from Draco’s desk for the next two weeks if only the talented lawyer would grace them with his presence. He countered with four weeks and chose to ignore the smug look that spread across Harry’s face, clearly indicating he felt he had won.

A handful of other friends who weren’t part of the scrimmage met them there, including the future Mrs. Potter and her best friend, the Brightest Witch of the Age. The taciturn Pureblood wasn’t sure how he felt about being seated next to the very person he’d tormented all throughout their school years, but Hermione didn’t seem to mind. If anything, she went out of her way to engage him in conversation and seemed to consider it her personal mission for the evening not to let him retreat into himself and remain an observer only. At first he found her easy-to-read expressions and blunt honesty overwhelming and almost alarming, but as the night went on, he realized this was simply how she was. That she wasn’t trying to assert herself in any way, nor was she putting on a good show for anyone’s benefit. No, she engaged everyone the same way and was genuinely interested in hearing what they had to say, and was more than happy to offer her own, frank perspective on the topic at hand.

He found her to be incredibly intelligent, which really was no surprise. It was the one thing he’d been unable to disabuse himself of even when they were younger. There had never been any question that she deserved her spot at the top of their class, no matter how much his father railed against it. What did surprise him, though, was how enjoyable talking with her was. She was quick-witted and sarcastic, but also friendly and kind and, dare he admit it, rather sweet. He noticed that particular attribute as he observed her interaction with one of the waitresses who had accidentally spilled a small amount of water on Hermione’s sleeve as she tried to squeeze between tables in the crowded pub. From the server’s reaction, you’d have thought she’d dumped an entire cauldron of steaming hot, bright red, tomato soup on top of the famous witch’s head. With flaming cheeks and tear-filled eyes, she apologized profusely as she tried to wipe the wets spots from Hermione’s shirt, but the petite brunette wasn’t having any of it. She got out of her seat, dried her own sleeve with a wandless, wordless wave of her hand, and gave the waitress a hug and some quiet words of encouragement before sending the now-much-happier girl on her way.

At the end of the night, she’d turned her warm chocolate eyes on the handsome wizard beside her, and gave him a soft smile, saying she hoped she’d see him again soon, before disapparating home with Ginny. He’d chosen to walk back to his flat a few blocks away, letting his mind replay the events of his time with her and thinking that perhaps it wouldn’t be too terrible to come out with their makeshift team again after the next match. He wasn’t sure when that would be and was surprised to find himself hoping it would be sooner rather than later, but he wasn’t about to do anything ridiculous like ask Harry for the date of the next game. It would happen when it happened, and she might not even show up afterwards. He’d learned not to put his hopes in much of anything or anyone since the end of his Hogwarts days, and convinced himself that it wouldn’t matter to him either way if Hermione ran across his path again.

His detached resolve was challenged the very next week. As he sat behind his desk in his stark and orderly office, a knock sounded on his always-closed door, but the person on the other side didn’t even wait for him to issue an invitation to enter before breezing in with an armload of files that were unceremoniously plopped on his previously uncluttered work surface. A glare immediately spread across his face before he registered the chaotic curls and wide brown eyes positioned across from him, and his brows shot up into his fringe before he could school his features back into his standard calm mask of annoyance.

“Hey, Malfoy,” she smiled and gestured to the stack of papers she’d gifted him, “These are part of the Burgess-Tormund case. I’ve got another batch I’ll bring over after my two o’clock.” He continued to stare at her in utter bemusement, not having a clue what she was talking about, and it must have shown because she cocked her head and continued with a slight frown on her face. “The civil case over the runic translation of the great-grandfather’s will,” she offered and he simply blinked owlishly at her, finding himself slightly distracted by the curls framing her face that had escaped the bun atop her head. “Did no one tell you we’d be working together on this?”

At that, he snapped out of his muddled fog, cleared his throat, and gathered his most professional demeanor before politely responding, “No, I’d not heard anything about the case or that I’d be needing assistance, apparently.” He knew his tone sounded sharper than it needed to, it wasn’t her fault he hadn’t been alerted to this unusual development. Then again, most everyone on his floor knew to give him a wide berth and that interpersonal contact was on his list of least favorite things, and were probably still debating who was going to be unlucky enough to deliver this news. Almost as if his thoughts had summoned it, a yellow paper airplane floated through the still-open door at that moment and landed gently on top of the pile of folders that now looked like they’d be taking up residence there for quite some time. He unfolded it and was thusly informed that his expertise had been requested for a particular case as it involved two very old, exorbitantly wealthy, ridiculously stubborn, Pureblood families. Since the entire argument hinged on the translation of the last will and testament of a recently departed patriarch, which had been written in an obscure and archaic language of ancient runes, the Ministry’s top Runic Translator had been assigned to help.

“Ah, well, I understand now,” he handed the memo across to her and she read it quickly before rolling her eyes and huffing an exasperated sigh.

“Might’ve been nice if they’d given you a head’s up before I barged in here,” she grinned sheepishly, “Sorry about that. I’d have sent a note ahead of time if I’d known.” She pursed her lips and clasped her hands together, clearly unsure what to do now that she’d already forced herself into his space. His normal reaction, had it been anyone else, would have been to simply dismiss her and say he’d let her know when he needed her help with something, but for some reason he couldn’t bring himself to shut her down so quickly. Instead, as if his arm had a mind of its own, he found himself gesturing to the chair across from him, inviting her to sit.

“You said you have a two o’clock?” he asked and she nodded as she settled in, “Perhaps you can tell me what you know of this case, since I’m clearly a leg behind.” He saw her visibly relax, as if she’d been prepared for a negative response or some sort of argument from him, and a flicker of something sparked in his gut, but he ignored it and leaned back in his seat, shifting to one side of the tower of parchment so he could see her better. She immediately launched into a succinct description of the case as she knew it to be, and offered her own brief opinion regarding the best way to tackle the task before them. He listened, he really did, but more times than he cared to count, his attention drifted from the details of the case to how pleasant her voice sounded, and how a sugary-citrus scent wafted around her, and how expressive her eyes were as she spoke. He forced his attention back to legal matters just as she was asking him when he thought he’d like to get started. A tiny and unfamiliar voice in the back of his brain yelled “right now!” but he ignored it as he made a show of checking his calendar and shuffling some papers around.

“I have a few loose ends to tie up, and I’ll hand one smaller case over to Goldstein, but we can get started Monday, if that works for you?” he kept his voice smooth, even though his heartrate had been steadily climbing since Hermione had entered his office. The beaming smile she responded with caused another jolt of something in his core that he refused to decipher right then, and he wiped his palms, which had become unaccountably sweaty, on his perfectly-creased trousers before giving what he hoped was an official-looking nod and floating the stack of files over to a small table he conjured in the corner for them to rest on.

“Thanks, Malfoy,” Hermione said as she got to her feet, “I’ll bring the other pile to you later today, if that’s alright? Or I can just bring them Monday when we officially begin? Whichever you prefer.”

Once again, the voice in his head spoke up, demanding she return as soon as possible, but he fought the urge to share that sentiment and attempted a matter-of-fact approach, “Monday is fine. There’s no sense in you having to make another trip all the way here, and I’ve got more than enough to be getting on with,” he nodded towards the pages and files occupying his desk.

She nodded in understanding and smiled at him again, “Alright then. I’ll see you first thing next week. And I really am sorry about showing up unannounced. Don’t hold it against me, hmm?” She turned and started towards the door and was almost through it when he found his voice.

“I wouldn’t dream of it,” he managed, feeling like his tie was strangling him. She looked back at him over her shoulder and tossed him a wink and a smirk before disappearing into the hall, leaving him feeling completely off-kilter and wondering what in Merlin’s name had just happened.

ooOoo

Draco did as he’d said; he finished up the odds and ends of paperwork left from other trials, and handed off not one, but three civil cases to Anthony, who was immensely surprised but very pleased to have the top legal advisor bequeath some cases to him. He also sought out his office administrator, an unprecedented act since he never spoke to anyone on the floor unless absolutely necessary, and even then, it was rarely he who initiated it. However, he needed her to know that he was currently, and for the foreseeable future, working on this case and this case only, and any requests for his counsel on other matters would need to be held off or handed to someone else. Before he could stop himself, he also informed the middle-aged witch currently goggling at him that Hermione Granger would be working with him on this case, and that any requests she made should be immediately granted. The secretary made a few notes for herself and nodded, wide-eyed and speechless, at the handsome and usually-stoic attorney, and as he strode back to his office, she wondered if perhaps something wasn’t shifting under his perfectly polished veneer.

That weekend, it rained, which was actually a good thing since it meant Harry would not try to get everyone together for a match, and with hours of uninterrupted time stretched before him, Draco threw himself into preparations for the runes case, as he taken to calling it in his head. While presenting evidence, arguing facts, and convincing juries were like a second nature to him, his knowledge when it came to ancient symbols was limited to whatever he’d learned in lessons during his school days. He was nowhere near the level of expertise Hermione possessed, and though he knew he never would be, he still didn’t want to come off like an ignorant troll when they met on Monday. The case itself was fairly straightforward: The great-grandfather who had passed away had two sons, both of whom were rather getting on in years themselves, and each of whom had children of their own. Upon the man’s death, a copy of the will had been presented to the sons, who were unpleasantly surprised to find it had been written in a language neither of them were familiar with. After making some half-hearted attempts to translate it themselves, they passed it on to their offspring who originally thought it a wonderful project for the siblings and cousins to tackle together.

Unfortunately, after months of tedious research and the beginnings of some basic translations, they came to a standstill when several of the runes appeared to have multiple meanings. Obviously, this directly affected the execution of the document, and an argument broke out over which meanings were intended. Both families sought the help of experts, and both came back with different results, each side sporting a version that benefitted themselves, of course. Round and round they went, until the brothers had had quite enough of their children’s foolishness, and threatened to burn the parchment and turn the entire estate over to a charity. This caused a whole new host of problems, leading up to the current situation, where the children from both families were filing a lawsuit against their fathers, as well as against each other for their own translation to take precedence.

Draco spent the better portion of his Saturday immersed in the world of runes. He studied the translations provided by each side, as well as the original document. He also dug out his old text book to see if it would jog some academic memories, but aside from a handful of very common symbols, it wasn’t much help. Repeatedly, he found himself going back to Hermione’s hand-written notes about her findings, and what the symbols represented. She had made her own copy of each contested version, but also had five others that she had completed, and another she’d gotten about halfway through. He wondered why she’d stopped. Her script was loopy and slanted, and sometimes wild, as if she’d been thinking faster than her quill would go, and the little scribbles here and there reminded him of the curls resting along her temple and the nape of her neck. His eyes blew wide when he realized where his mind had wandered off to and he chided himself for getting distracted. Yes, she was pretty, so what? He was fairly certain she’d never be interested in the likes of him, nor did he want her to be. Relationships were messy and unpredictable and filled with expectations that he had no desire to meet, and required a level of familiarity and openness he was far from comfortable with.

By the time Sunday night rolled around, he had convinced himself that this was a job, a professional partnership, and nothing more. He would be civil and polite, but they weren’t friends, and they definitely weren’t going to become anything more, so he wasn’t going to waste another second thinking about her sparkling eyes, or recalling the sound of her laugh, or wondering how soft her curls might be. He could appreciate her level of intellect, and was sure her knowledge in the subject matter would be beneficial, and once they sorted it all out, it would be over and done with, and he could return to his routine of mundane solitude. He was still firmly entrenched in this internal monologue, a combination of self-depreciating reminders and foreboding lectures, as he entered his office the next morning. He had just enough time to set down the files and hang up his cloak before his door flew open and Hermione floated in with the promised second pile of information pertaining to the case.

“Knock, knock,” she called brightly, smiling at him as she set the stack next to its predecessor. “Good weekend?” she asked as she spun around and waved her wand, conjuring two steaming cups of coffee and a plate of still-warm breakfast pastries, which she set on his desk before plopping herself into the chair she’d occupied the last time. Draco, however, was still frozen in place, his hands still in mid-air from where he’d let go of his cloak on the hanger, and feeling like a small tornado had just blown through his office. He shook his head and stiffly made his way to his desk where he sank into his chair and forced himself to meet the pair of fathomless chocolate eyes that had been watching him intently.

“Yes,” he cleared his throat, “Good enough. Spent most of it going through the papers you gave me last week.” Why in Salazar’s seven hells had he just admitted that? For one thing, now she knew he had literally no social life, which never bothered him before, but for some reason it did today, and for another, he’d basically just admitted that he didn’t know much about ancient runes, which would give her the upper hand, and that made him feel inferior and he loathed it. He could feel his composure slipping and in a desperate attempt to gain control, scowled menacingly at the scones and crumpets currently occupying his typically-spotless desk.

“What’s this, then?” he bit out, jerking his chin at the small dish and narrowing his gaze at the witch seated across the way. She arched a brow at him and he could have sworn her lips twitched, as if she was trying not to smile, but she met his glare head on with an open, curious look.

“Breakfast. For while we figure out a game plan for this case. Unless you already know exactly where you want to start and how you want to proceed, in which case, I’ll just go sit quietly in the corner until summoned.” Her brown eyes glittered with mischief and he stomped on the urge to grin, settling instead for an imperious smirk. She was right, of course, but he didn’t need to concede right off the bat. He was about to say he planned to start by outlining the difference between the translations, but she wasn’t quite finished with him yet. “If you’ve got some aversion to baked goods, I’ll just get rid of these,” and she raised her wand as if preparing to vanish the plate. His knee-jerk reaction circumvented his need to appear unaffected and a protest blurted out before he could stop it.

“No, no, it’s fine,” he cleared his throat again. Godric, this was becoming an irritating habit, “I just don’t normally eat at my desk, so it was…I was…” Floundering and massively ineloquent was what he was, and he was starting to get very hot around the collar as he waved his hand at her continental offering. “Thank you. It’s very thoughtful,” he sighed out, feeling sheepish for his original animosity and exhausted from the emotional gymnastics he’d just endured. He felt like his brain was warring with itself; like the logical side was hell-bent on self-preservation, as always, but his more emotional side (which was alarmingly out of practice), had obviously been prodded awake by the petite brunette an arm’s length away, and clearly was jumping at the chance to roar into action in all manner of idiotic and embarrassing ways.

Thankfully, Hermione didn’t comment or give any indication that his bizarre behavior over the last minute and a half had confused or upset her in any way. Instead, she picked up her cup of coffee, blew delicately over the surface before taking a small sip, and reached for a crumpet that had been slathered in butter and blueberry jam. She took a small bite and closed her eyes for the briefest moment, clearly enjoying her morning snack, and Draco realized _he_ was enjoying watching _her_ , which threw him into another spiral of panic. He grabbed the closest scone and took an enormous bite as a means to distract himself from the way she licked her lips. Now, it must be said that scones are a staple of English breakfasts and teas, but they are often as dry and crumbly as members of Parliament, and should most assuredly be paired with copious amounts of butter, jam, clotted cream, or even dipping chocolate if one is feeling a bit fancy. In any event, they really aren’t meant to be eaten plain, and if that’s the only option, it’s best to break off small pieces that can be chased with a slurp of tea, but above all else, they should not be ingested by large mouthfuls.

Draco registered his mistake far too late. The sizeable chunk of flour and raisins (which he hated, by the way), seemed to be expanding as he attempted to chew it. It was drier than dirt and the parts that were starting to mix with saliva were creating a paste-like substance that stuck to the roof of his mouth and the insides of his cheeks. He couldn’t seem to get all of it on one side of his mouth, and was positive he looked like an aristocratic chipmunk. In a desperate bid to divest himself of it all, he took a swig of his coffee, which must have come from the fountains of hades itself, as scalding as it was, and with no ability to control his motor function, he promptly spewed the entire mess out, showering his desk, the uneaten pastries, and his new work partner in hot liquid and lumps of soggy, mostly-chewed scone.

Silence reigned in the seconds that followed. Stunned, heavy, mortifying silence filled the space around them as Draco couldn’t even begin to comprehend what had just happened, and Hermione sat there with eyes as round as saucers, her previously solid, pale blue shirt now speckled with brown droplets and tiny clumps of dough. It was the raisin that sent them crashing over the edge. Apparently one had made its way onto the top of her head and when she looked down to survey the damage done to her clothing, it slid off her curls and into her lap. As soon as she realized what it was, she snorted. Then her shoulders started shaking, and at first he was afraid she was crying, but then she lifted her face and when her eyes met his, she burst into hysterical laughter. Unable to stop himself, he chuckled too, still trying to maintain some semblance of control over everything, but it was a lost cause. When Hermione reached for her wand, presumably to clean herself off, she glanced down at her coffee cup and found a rather large chunk of half-masticated scone, floating there like a defiant island on a sea of cream and sugar, and she lost it all over again. This time, he let go right along with her and the two of them roared till their sides hurt and there were tears streaming down their cheeks.

As their mirth gradually diminished to sporadic giggles and tired wheezes, the office administrator poked her head in through the open door, a cautious look on her kind face. She raised her eyebrows in silent question and Draco simply waved her off with a small smile and a shake of his head. He immediately set about cleaning up his mess, and therefore didn’t see the calculated look that crossed the older woman’s face as she glanced between the two people in the room, nor did he see the satisfied smile that curved her lips as she headed back to her desk.

“I’m so sorry, Hermione, truly,” he said sincerely as he stood up to siphon puddles of coffee off his desk and the papers it had landed on. He looked up to see her staring at him with a curious expression, “Are you alright? Did you get burned?”

She shook her head slowly, “No, not at all.” She waved her wand in an arc above her head and at once her clothes were pristine, and her hair raisin-free once more, though she continued to study him as if trying to puzzle something out.

“What?” he asked, starting to feel uncomfortable under her scrutiny and wondering if he had a shriveled grape of his own lodged somewhere.

“You’ve never called me that before,” she stated simply.

It took him a moment to figure out what she was talking about, having not consciously decided to use her given name, and immediately he stiffened. He had no idea why he’d done so, and was afraid he’d stepped over some sort of invisible line with her, and was wracking his brain to come up with a response when she spoke again.

“Does that mean I can call you _Draco_ now?” There was the slightest hint of teasing in her tone, but he could tell she was genuinely asking, and he knew if it had been anyone else, anyone at all, he would have scoffed and cut them to the quick, but he couldn’t do that to her. He didn’t know why, but the last thing he wanted to do was hurt her, and that thought bounced around his weary brain like a wayward bludger, but he didn’t have time to unpack the implications right then. Instead he settled for a much friendlier smirk than he’d shot at her earlier and gave a noncommittal shrug, stuffing his hands in his pockets and trying his best to look like it didn’t matter to him either way, which was the biggest load of thestral shite he’d shoveled in some time.

“We’re grown-ups now, yeah?” he offered, arching a brow in jest.

“Most of the time I’d say yes,” she chuckled softly and he wanted to bottle the sound and carry it with him, “Though the mess we just cleaned up wasn’t very dignified, hmm?”

He snorted and rolled his eyes, “Yes, well, aside from my momentary lapse of manners and decorum and muscle control.” She laughed outright and nodded.

“Yes, aside from that.”

He could tell she was still waiting for an actual answer to her question, and for some reason he felt like this was a crucial moment for him. He could backpedal and make some joke about only using first names in embarrassing situations like the one they’d just shared, or he could claim the need for professionalism and say it would be better not to, but the honest-to-Merlin truth was that he wanted to let her in. After years of keeping everyone at a distance, of never letting his guard down around others, of rigidly maintaining his flawlessly unruffled façade, he wanted someone he could be real with. Not just anyone, though. _Her_.

Taking a deep breath and feeling like he was about to jump out a very high window, he met her gold-flecked gaze and nodded, “I think we can handle first names now, don’t you?” He was pretty sure he saw a flash of triumph flit across her pretty features, but her beaming smile captured his attention completely and he felt like his feet might have left the floor for a second or two. With that decided, the unlikely pair dove into their joint project post haste, and the world shifted without them even noticing.

ooOoo

The Burgess-Tormund case took them a little over two months to sort out. Actually, it took seventy-two and a half days. Draco knew because he counted them, just like he kept track of how many times they ordered take-out because they were working late (twenty eight), and how many Sunday afternoons they spent pouring over notes at her flat (eleven), and how many Quidditch matches she attended and cheered him on at (four), and how many times she wore his favorite sage-green silk blouse with ruffled sleeves (five). But the number he was most concerned with was the one he was about to tackle. In celebration of their completed efforts, and the success of the court case (the children had dropped the suit against their fathers, and each family had walked away with a sizable inheritance), he wanted to take her to dinner. Not fish and chips at the pub after a tiring day, but an elegant, full-course, candlelit dinner. A date, if he was totally honest, hopefully the first of many, and he was jittery with nerves at the prospect of asking her.

They were in the process of sorting through the mountain of parchment, scrolls, texts, and ancient journals that had taken over his previously-fastidious office, deciding what could be tossed, what needed to remain in the file, and what should be returned to the archives. As the weeks had gone by, he found they worked very well together, seamlessly, almost. Her easy-going, genial nature had softened his hard edges, and she was rarely bothered by his moments of sniping or brooding silence, both of which were often the result of him feeling like he’d said too much or appeared too vulnerable. She had an innate ability to read between the lines, or below the surface, and never used his vices against him. In fact, after one of his particularly scathing outbursts, she quietly commented that they all had their own baggage to carry and scars to bear, and simply steered the conversation in a more productive direction.

Not long after that, a conversation over Chinese takeaway late one night had them venturing into the dark and difficult topic of the war. She admitted to still having occasional nightmares, though not nearly as often as she’d used to, and though she didn’t specifically say what they were about, the way she absentmindedly rubbed her left arm as her eyes glazed over told him more than enough. As so often seemed to happen when he was with her, his body acted beyond his control and he found himself getting out of his seat and crouching down in front of her. Clutching her hand, unable to look at her face as he spoke, a stilted and choked apology spilled from his lips till he could barely breathe from the tightness in his chest. She cupped his jaw with her hand and gently forced him to meet her gaze, her warm chocolate eyes swirling with emotion as tears trickled down her cheeks. She forgave him and told him they never needed to speak of any of it again. She told him she was proud of him and the man he’d become, and that she was incredibly glad to have him in her life. He’d never been so deeply touched by someone else’s words, and although he’d managed to keep himself composed until they’d left for their respective homes, the moment he’d stepped through his floo, he’d dissolved into a shuddering mess on his living room floor.

It was the first time in over four years that he’d allowed himself to fully grieve over everything the war had wrought on him; the loss he’d endured, the pain he’d suffered, the physical and emotional scars he still bore. Not since the day his father had been sentenced to Azkaban for the rest of his life had he succumbed to tears in such a way, and it had been freeing and cathartic in a way he’d never expected. It had also forced him to take serious stock of his life as it currently was, and what he planned to do about his steadily-growing attachment to one curly haired witch. Never would he have imagined that the two of them could become friends, much less that he would find himself falling in love with her, but there he was. He had no idea, however, if she might return the sentiment.

The last few weeks of their joint venture, he paid closer attention to her. His eyes were often drawn to her throughout the day, but now he watched her with a purpose, garnering her response to how close he stood, or the things he said. He kept a running inventory of what made her cheeks blush endearingly, what made her eyes sparkle versus what made them flash, what made her breath hitch, and whether or not she pulled away when they touched. All the evidence he compiled pointed to her being, at the very least, comfortable in close proximity to him, and not averse to touching him. In fact, she often poked him when teasing, or nudged him with her elbow when he was being a prat, or even placed her hand on his arm or shoulder when they read the same page. He caught her watching him through her long lashes more times than he could count, and if she noticed he’d spotted her, her cheeks would turn pink and a tiny smile would tug at the corner of her lips. These minute details gave him confidence leading up to their last day of clean up, and as they plowed through the files, he decided to go for it.

“I think we should celebrate,” he announced as pages fluttered around them, landing in their appropriate piles.

She gave a half-glance over her shoulder as she directed a stack of scrolls to a box in the corner, “I agree. Shall we order from Liscio’s? We haven’t gotten pasta in a while. Or there’s a new Thai place a block over?”

“I was thinking something a bit more upscale,” he explained as he lowered his wand and took a step towards her. She, however, continued to charm a stack of ancient books onto the cart that would roll itself down to the archives.

“Oh, well, there’s that nice French bistro in Whitehall? They have that chocolate tart you like.”

“Actually,” he reached out and placed his hand on her arm, causing her to turn and face him, a puzzled look on her face, “I was wondering if you’d let me take you to dinner? I’d like to thank you properly for all your help with this, and…” he trailed off as her expression dawned to understanding and a shy smile lit up her features.

“I’d love to,” she breathed and it was all he could do not to pull her to him and kiss her senseless. Instead, he issued a lopsided grin and nodded in affirmation.

“Brilliant. Tomorrow night okay?”

“Yes, perfect,” she was still gazing at him like he’d hung the moon and he was loathe to end the moment, but he knew they needed to finish, and he was afraid his resolve not to snog her would crumble if he didn’t get back to work. He let his hand slide down her arm before breaking contact completely, and set about sorting more papers. The rest of their time vacillated between companionable silence, necessary questions, and shy smiles whenever their eyes met. At the end of it all, they stood in the middle of his once-again pristine office, both feeling mildly awkward but tremendously pleased.

“Looks like we’re done here,” he commented, glancing around the uncluttered space. “I think I’ll actually cut out early today. You?”

“I should check in with my department, since I’ve only popped in a handful of times since we started this case. But I’ll see you tomorrow?”

“Absolutely. Seven o’clock?”

“That’s fine. Do you want me to meet you, or…” she was watching him closely and nibbling her lower lip.

“I’ll floo into yours, if that’s alright? We can go from there?”

“Yes,” she let out what sounded like a small sigh of relief and his heart skipped at the thought that she might be just as excited about this as he was.

“Right. Well, then,” he tipped his head towards her in the tiniest of bows, earning himself a delightful giggle, before turning to grab his cloak. They walked to the lifts together, but parted ways there since he needed to go up, and she needed to go down. Hers arrived first, and he stayed rooted to the spot as she stepped in, turned around, and gave him a small wave and a radiant smile before the doors closed. He wanted to punch his fist into the air, but reigned that impulse in until he’d gotten on the lift, then off at the atrium, then stepped through the floo to his flat, and only then did he allow himself a small ‘whoop’ of triumph as he spun on his heel before making his way towards his kitchen and a well-deserved glass of Ogden’s.

ooOoo

Their first date took place at a tiny little Greek restaurant near Piccadilly, where the crescent-shaped booths provided a nice amount of privacy, and the tiny, low-lit chandeliers over each table made it a bit more romantic. They worked their way through several courses of small plates, chatting easily and enjoying each other’s company, though both were clearly a little nervous about the obvious shift taking place in their relationship. Hermione had dazzled him when he stepped through her floo and found her dressed in a sleeveless, black dress with a modest v-neck, cinched waist, and flouncy skirt that stopped just above her knee. He’d admitted to himself long ago that she was beautiful, but she still took his breath away when she smiled at him in greeting and tucked her hand in his elbow as they walked out the door. She remained close to him as they entered the intimate establishment, and didn’t shy away as he slid into the booth, meeting her in the middle with just enough space between them so they could turn to face one another as they talked.

He knew that night, in fact, he probably knew even before then, but his fortress of defense mechanisms hadn’t been ready to let his affections take root, but he knew there would never be anyone else in the world for him. He memorized the way she looked at him as she spoke of her hopes for the future, things she wanted to accomplish, and goals she wanted to achieve. Her eyes danced with excitement and anticipation as she considered the life that stretched before her, and he could feel the longing to share in that with her growing inside him like a tidal wave building before it crashed onto the shore. For the first time in a very long time he saw the future as something bright and wonderful and filled with possibilities, as opposed to the solitary stretch of road he’d resigned himself to.

That little restaurant became a favorite of theirs; a celebration spot of sorts. It’s where they went when he was promoted to the head of the legal department; the youngest ever in Ministry history. Where they gathered with friends when Harry and Ginny announced their engagement, and where Draco proposed to her a year later. She’d been speechless, which he considered a great accomplishment on his part, and had immediately burst into happy tears when he slipped the sparkling ring on her finger. Neither of them wanted an elaborate wedding, so a simple yet elegant affair was pulled together in a few short months, held in a remote location far from prying eyes and the only people in attendance were her parents, his mother, and a handful of close friends. They had toyed with the idea of writing their own vows, but he was extremely glad they’d chosen to go with the standard, “repeat after me” version, since he didn’t think he would have been able to get anything more out around the snitch-sized lump that had formed in his throat the second he saw her gliding down the aisle towards him. She was positively radiant, brimming with love and unconditional acceptance, and having her beside him was overwhelming in the best way possible.

He could readily admit that before Hermione had come into his life this second time around, his world was lonely, cold, and bleak. He existed day to day, he did what he needed to in order to survive, but work had been his sole focus, and the mere thought of letting anyone close had terrified him. Now, with her next to him, his world was filled with warmth and light, peace and happiness. He was able to find contentment in the simplest of things, and while he maintained his ruthless reputation in the courtroom, he was much more approachable outside of it. He laughed more easily, smiled often, and found he had a much greater capacity to love than he’d ever imagined. The curly-haired witch had wiggled her way under his skin and into his heart almost without him even noticing during their early months of working together, and he would be forever thankful for it. He still wasn’t entirely sure, even now, how he’d gotten here. It was one thing to be his friend, or even his girlfriend, but now she was his _wife_ ; she had taken his name and magically bonded herself to him for the rest of their lives, and he sorely doubted he deserved such goodness.

Lost in his melancholy thoughts, he didn’t hear the bathroom door open, or her soft footsteps as she padded across the room. It wasn’t until she was an arm’s length from him that he noticed her presence, and the breath was forced from his lungs as he took her in. Wearing nothing but a white silk slip of fabric, held up by tiny ribbons that tied behind her neck, the open back and mid-thigh hemline showed off more of her than he’d ever seen. While they had shared more than a few passionate episodes, he had always stopped things before they went too far, never wanting her to feel shackled to him by a physical relationship. Perhaps part of him was leaving the door cracked open, should she ever decide he wasn’t worthy of her time, and though it would have gutted him, he would have understood. Instead, she’d respected the boundaries he’d established, though not without teasing him once in a while, or making him wonder why exactly he’d chosen those limitations during several particularly heated moments.

She stepped closer, right up into the space between his knees and carded her hand through his white-blonde locks. Her eyes searched his, wondering what he was thinking, and she trailed her fingers down the side of his face, resting her palm against his cheek and feeling his jaw clenched beneath it. 

“Draco?” she spoke softly, concern coloring her tone.

He couldn’t speak, and as he leaned into her touch he felt his eyes sting and his chest constrict, and was at a complete loss as to how to explain the maelstrom of emotions wreaking havoc on him. She didn’t seem to need his words, however, as she wrapped her arms around him and pulled him close, his forehead resting on her shoulder. He took a shuddering breath and circled his arms around her waist, while she traced soothing circles on his back. After several silent moments in that vein, she pressed a kiss to the top of his head.

“I love you,” she whispered.

He thought he’d gotten himself back under control, but the choked sound that escaped at her words proved otherwise. He shifted, pulling her even closer and buried his face in her citrus-scented curls, which only served to remind him of the first time he smelled her shampoo when she’d come to his office, causing him to once again marvel at the fact that they’d come this far and made it to this point together, and he was overcome by all of it. Unable to keep the tears at bay, he gave up and pulled back to look at her, bringing his hands up to cup her face and blinking furiously to clear his vision so he could see his beautiful witch.

“I love you,” he rasped out through trembling lips that stilled a second later when she pressed her own to them. The kiss started out soft and sweet, a wordless conversation offering affection and security, and slowly built to an expression of desire and need. He realized with a jolt that went straight to his core that for once he didn’t have to be mindful of previous boundaries. She was finally, completely, entirely _his_ , and that thought alone made his heart skip a beat as he fought off the tears still lingering behind his eyelids. He let one hand glide over her shoulder, down her arm, over the curve of her hip, to the edge of her negligee, where he noticed a slight bunching under the silken fabric. He paused and looked down, lifting the white slip a few inches to reveal a deep red garter with gold ribbon running through it, and couldn’t help the low chuckle that emerged. This had been one of his little gifts to her a few days ago, in response to the Slytherin shorts he was currently wearing. Those had arrived by owl to his desk while he and Harry were in the middle of a discussion. Not stopping to consider what might have been in the small box, he’d opened it and pulled out the satiny pants, much to his mortification and the Chosen One’s delight. When he’d finally stopped laughing, Harry had told him not to worry, that he’d help him, and later that evening introduced him to a fascinating Muggle store called _Victoria’s Secret_ , where he found the delicate little band of lace and ribbon. He sent it off to his soon-to-be bride with a promise of more items from the lingerie shop in the very near future.

He’d forgotten all about it until that very second, and the sight of it added some much-needed levity to the moment. He met her gaze with a mischievous smirk and found a similar expression on her own face as her eyes dropped to his green shorts and back up to meet his pewter stare with an arched brow. He felt a ripple of magic swirl around them and watched, with no small degree of surprise, as those very same shorts went from green to crimson in the blink of an eye. In response, he immediately looked back at the garter his fingers had been toying with, only to find that it now was sporting emerald silk and silver ribbon, instead of its previous colors. Extremely impressive spell work aside, he understood the meaning behind Hermione’s gesture. While their former house colors would always hold a special place in their hearts, they did not define who they were, nor did they matter in the grand scheme of life. The swapping of colors showed that she truly belonged to him now, and he to her, and that everything they had from that moment on would be shared between them.

Godric, he loved her. Loved the way her mind worked, and the way she always knew exactly what he needed, and how she could convey such a deep message in such a simple act. He knew there would still be moments of self-doubt in his future, probably many of them if he was honest, but he was determined to show her every single day that she was cherished and adored, appreciated and esteemed. It had taken him a long time to find his way back to a place of peace, acceptance, and hope for the future. A place where he could finally trust someone again, and believe that happiness was within his grasp. And it was; the personification of his happiness was literally in his hands right at that very instant, and he wasn’t going to wait a single minute longer to start showing her how utterly and completely lost in her he was, how every beat of his heart belonged to her, and how very grateful he was to be there.

**Author's Note:**

> Hi there! Thanks so much for reading the latest nonsense floating around in my brain. The image of the color-changing shorts has been stuck with me for a bit, and I finally worked a story around it :) This Draco is a little more standoffish and stoic than most of my others, but it seemed to fit. I hope you enjoy it! <3


End file.
